


put a lid on it

by ohirareon



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Fluff, Getting Together, M/M, debate au, futakuchi kenji is a gremlin spawn, i mean Really Awful Flirting, really awful flirting, well. forensics au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-20
Updated: 2016-06-20
Packaged: 2018-07-16 07:09:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,363
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7257619
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ohirareon/pseuds/ohirareon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Futakuchi makes the best of an otherwise awful situation.</p><p>Or, “that one time Futakuchi nearly got kicked off the debate/forensics team”.</p>
            </blockquote>





	put a lid on it

**Author's Note:**

> thanks to [ becky](%E2%80%9Dtwitter.com/dickaeopolis%E2%80%9D) for betaing
> 
> notes:  
> -there's little (read:no) info that i found about DDF (drama, debate, forensics) in Japan  
> -for this reason, the location is ambiguous, but has qualities that are America-centric (partially because i worked off of my own experience in debate for this)  
> -if you want to read more about extemporaneous commentary and what it is, click here

Futakuchi accepts his royally-fucked-over state as his back slides down the wall, leaving him heaped like a pile of laundry on the grimy school floor. Sitting in the hallway, he rereads the now-crumpled slip of paper with his demise typed in Times New Roman: Who will prevail in the struggle over the Keystone Pipeline expansion?

He really lucked out this time because out of the three of topics he drew, Futakuchi knew the exact same amount about each. That is, jack shit. Who the fuck knows what Ronald Reagan’s impact on the presidency is? All he knows is that his mom had (continues to have) the hots for him, and he wants to know as little about Ronald Reagan as possible. And as much as Futakuchi wants to say that he knows about the safety and solvency of the airline industry, he knows he can’t talk about how much he hates being crammed into a seat next to someone who won’t shut up about their nephew’s scholastic achievements and an old guy who smells like mothballs and doesn’t have bladder control, only in fear of running over the time limit.

Seven out of twenty minutes of planning time later, and he still has no fucking clue what to say.

 _Fuck this_ , Futakuchi thinks and pushes himself up off the floor and walks into the room. The third speaker is still talking -- Futakuchi _did_ enter the room early. It may be poor etiquette, but Coach will have his ass after this speech regardless. It’s not like Futakuchi thought of anything while sitting out there, and in here he can at least sit on an actual chair.

As Futakuchi slumps down into a hard plastic seat in the back row, he catches the words of the ongoing speaker. “Our current economy neglects the farming industry -- especially the smaller, less-corporate businesses -- which is why we need to draw awareness to this issue.”

The person speaking is an odd pick for extemporaneous speech, which, at least in the Miyagi school district, is known for their variety of eccentric speakers. From Shiratorizawa’s red-headed menace to Aoba Johsai’s speaker who somehow ends up talking about weed regardless of assigned topic, this brand of forensics attracted the sort of people who were born with bullshit flying from their mouths. They admittedly have a reputation for being obnoxious, and it’s not difficult to pick them out from the commons based on noise level and (in)appropriateness of conversation.

The thing is, Speaker Three is none of that.

If anything, Speaker Three is one of the most ordinary people Futakuchi has seen at a tournament.

He’s wearing a perfectly fitted gray suit -- standard tournament attire -- that matches his equally standard face. Heavy-lidded eyes that one could attempt to pass off as “engaging,” normal complexion, plain dark hair. Nothing stands out -- even his speech has textbook organization.

It’s not like standard isn’t working for him, though.

The judge, an aging parent volunteer and easy pickings for Miyagi-caliber speakers, nods at Speaker Three’s sentiment that “yes, the economy can really benefit from an emphasis on agriculture.”

Slinking further into his seat, Futakuchi lightly drums his fingers on the desk in front of him and sits through the rest of the speech. Uninterested in farming, he zones off, staring at the space between the whiteboard and Speaker Three’s shoulders.

It’s a pleasant way to spend the time before his imminent doom.

“Fourth speaker, code 6024, on the topic ‘Who will prevail in the struggle over the Keystone Pipeline expansion?‘ please come up to the podium.” The judge states, snapping Futakuchi out of his farming (and definitely not shoulder) induced haze.

The “podium” is a school desk -- there’s no pretending it has the dignity of a podium, not that he will have any dignity by the end of this. (Aone would claim that he didn’t have any in the first place.)

Speaker Three, now seated in the middle of the swath of desks littering the room, pulls out his legal pad and blue pen. _Good luck with flowing this speech._ The judge steeples her fingers and looks up. 

“I’ll time myself; judge ready?” he hears himself say. He gets a nod in return.

Futakuchi takes a breath. _Here we go._

“Oil -- the blood in America’s veins, the nation’s driving force, almost to the extent of over-caffeinated drinks and ruthless capitalism. Oil -- what makes this nation great and is a necessity in every sense. “ He looks up to see Speaker Three scratching in the makings of a flow chart. He seems too practiced, like this is the hundredth time he’s pulled out that exact legal pad and taken notes for the sake of his team. However, straightness in his back shows the unlikely: Speaker Three is actually listening to what Futakuchi says.

It’s oddly refreshing, and, well, who is Futakuchi to deny the audience a performance?

“Every day on the news we look around to find what? A celebrity’s latest exploit or oil. No in between; you get oil or pregnancy scandals of some sort. Not to mention, oil is in so many products these days that conflict over it, in this case, the Keystone Pipeline expansion, is dramatic.” He makes a sweeping gesture with his arm. “You could almost say we can’t live without it.

“Evaluate your life without oil: Where would you be? The ink on those ballots - oil product. That trash bag - oil product. The undeniably effective hair product of the dapper gentleman in the back,” Futakuchi loosely points to the center of the room towards his new target. “- oil product. Your dentures - _oil product_.”

The judge’s eyebrows furrow. Meanwhile, Speaker Three is listening intently, chin on hands, lips upturned in the slightest, which Futakuchi translates as “highly amused.” “The lube that I will hopefully use in the near future - _oil product._ ” Futakuchi tosses a wink towards his direction. “Thus we can see that oil is something vital to the community, essential for this coming generation.

“This vitality even furthers the controversy. It brings up many new dialogues - ones about our future - like, will this speech possibly get me Speaker Three’s digits, in either respect, or if I’d even be able to pay for the gas to take him out on a date, judging by its current prices. Who fucking knows at this rate, to be honest?”

At the two minute and eight second mark, the purple-faced judge asks Futakuchi through gritted teeth to leave the room.

“My pleasure,” he says, and throws out a wave for good measure before stepping out into the hall. It’s only a moment later that the door opens again, and, _speak of the devil_. Flow chart in hand, Speaker Three looks him over in a manner too knowing for Futakuchi’s taste.

“While ‘Speaker Three’ has a ring to it, it is a bit of a mouthful,” he says with a wry look.

Then he hands Futakuchi the sheet of legal paper and walks off down the hall. “Thank you for guaranteeing me first in room,” he tosses over his incredibly well-sculpted shoulder.

Futakuchi looks down to see a perfectly documented analysis of his speech in neat, slanted handwriting. There’s even a final commentary written. ‘Speaker deviates off-topic from given prompt. Engaging and expressive, Speaker has the oral skills to succeed, but not the full knowledge to do so. Could benefit from more thorough research and should consider appealing to the judge, not the audience.’ Beneath that the lower right hand corner reads: Ennoshita Chikara; Karasuno DDF team. 812-2342.

It’s everything he could have hoped for.

As Futakuchi turns the corner, he runs into Coach Oiwake in his greasy-haired glory. “Futakuchi! How was your round?” Coach asks before pausing, “Wait, isn’t it too early for you to be out? I saw you draw not long ago.”

He waits a moment until it dawns on Coach’s face like the release of an atomic bomb.

“Was _whatever_ you did worth getting disqualified? Because you just cost us some serious points this tournament!” Coach screams, red in the face.

“Honestly, it definitely was,” Futakuchi says, and runs off to the commons to enter the number into his phone as soon as possible.

**Author's Note:**

> yell with me on [ twitter](%E2%80%9Dtwitter.com/ohirareon%E2%80%9D) / [ tumblr ](%E2%80%9Dohirareon.tumblr.com%E2%80%9D)


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